


The Cock's Crow

by BellasHeadband



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Alpha Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Blood Magic, Elemental Magic, F/M, Inspired by The Witcher, POV Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Porn With Plot, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Protective Witchers (The Witcher), Reader-Insert, Sex Magic, Soft Witchers (The Witcher)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-22
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-12 19:34:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29639571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BellasHeadband/pseuds/BellasHeadband
Summary: You own the only tavern and inn in the small town of Nowhere, a town you founded. Geralt of Rivia, caught in a snow storm, seeks a place to sleep for the night at your inn. He finds that you and the residents of your village are more interesting than he ever could have predicted.Chapters 2 and 5 have the heavy smut, but it's sprinkled throughout as well.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Reader, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Original Female Character(s), Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Reader, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/You
Comments: 2
Kudos: 56





	1. A Not So Innocent Wager

It was particularly cold that night, the kind of cold you just can't shake alone. Fortunately, you were not alone. In a village this small, with only one tavern to its name, your tavern, you always had someone to  
talk to—or to ignore, whatever kind of company you needed. Therein was the second benefit of your small town: being the sole provider of good company and a good mug of ale meant people listened to the rules of your establishment and respected your personal wishes. Your patrons knew not to cross a line with you, and they made sure any outsiders knew just as well. That's the way things were at The Cock's Crow, and you liked it just fine.

"Hey, Birdie,” a patron called from the other end of the bar. That's what most of the villagers called you, a nickname derived from the name of your beloved establishment.

"What is it this time, Dorsett?" you called over your shoulder as you wiped sticky liquor from your hands.

"Jonesy and I would like to propose a little wager," William Dorsett's stool scraped as he got up and sauntered to your end of the bar. You leaned your elbows casually on the back counter, waiting to hear what kind of bullshit the boys had for you tonight.

"A wager, huh? That's never good," you said to the two middle-aged men now splashing the contents of their cups on the wooden counter you had just so thoroughly wiped down.

"Yeah. That's right," chimed in William "Jonesy" Jones, nicknamed so because you can't quite go by your first name when your other half was christened with the same one. Two Williams with but one brain between the pair. "We was sayin' we’d wager ‘ole Birdie could get any stranger who come through that door to uh…come through another door," he winked, "if ye catch my meaning."

You took slight offense at his use of “ole” to describe you, but let it pass since that was just the way he always spoke. With an eye roll you responded, " Oh, I catch it.” You turned around pretending to be busy, but also giving them a great view of your shapely legs and ass. You generally chose to wear trousers rather than a skirt. You found that skirts were much harder to move around in and dragged too much unwanted debris around your well-kept tavern floors. Tonight's getup was a rather tight black leather number that showed off your assets quite well when paired with your brown suede corset and the loose fitting white top underneath. Clothes like this made you feel like an adventurer rather than a simple bar and inn keep. You dropped something on purpose so you could bend down slowly in your leather pants and prove Jonesy’s point.

"It doesn't sound like much of a wager to me," you said jokingly. "Who would possibly challenge me on it?"

The two Williams laughed in unison as they were wont to do. "Too true!” said Dorsett as you refilled his mug. "We would never say such a thing," he emphasized the word "we" as if it were even possible for he and his companion to have differing opinions. "But we’ve taken a poll," he said proudly.

"A poll?" you feigned patronizing interest, already mentally removed from this small talk. 

"Aye! Real official like,” chimed Jonesy.

"They're being genuine, Birdie," another of your regular patrons, the blacksmith John Rodgers, bellowed from the hearth on the other side of the room. You turned around toward his voice to protest and in the process, noticed that the chatter in the tavern had died down. All eyes were shifting in your direction. Rodgers continued, "It's ten to seven."

“Ten for or ten against?!” you asked indignantly.

Dorsett answered that time "Oh, ten for, to be sure miss Birdie.” You let out a noise of relief, though too soon as it were.

"Nay,” said Jonesy shaking his head in mock grief, “it be ten against."

“Ten of you think I can't pull a stranger? A simple man off the street? You've got to be joking!” you exclaimed at no one in particular. "I challenge you to find one among you who hasn’t made a pass at me."

“The challenge wasn’t in succeeding for some of us.”

“Do shut up, Fairfield. That was ages ago. I daresay you've lost your charm,” the other men chuckled at that, but Fairfield (who was quite good looking, you had to admit) shot right back.

“It appears more than half of your patrons think you've lost yours as well.” He leaned back in his chair, proud of himself. You glowered.

"Alright, since the ice outside seems to have frozen your brains and your balls, what's the wager then?" You aimed the question back at the Williams. "If I can get the next stranger who comes in that door to go to bed with me tonight," you could feel the excitement buzzing in the room, "what do I get out of it?" Men were so predictable, too predictable, and you were going to milk this for everything it was worth.

"Well" started Dorsett, "we were betting coin, but I s’pose we could make it more interesting since all of the coin in this shit heap eventually goes to you anyways.” He was not far off. All the townsfolk sold the bulk of their crops, game, and other wares to you during the day, but being that there was no other place to have an after-work chat with friends, they all came back at night and paid you double to consume it.

"I've got a proposal,” Rodgers drained his beer in one gulp and walked the empty mug your way as he spoke. Being the town’s only blacksmith, he was the second wealthiest person in your little settlement, also earning him a certain amount of respect.

"If you win, we'll give you the next day off,” a murmur of protests began to erupt from the crowd. Rodgers hushed them and continued, "but if you lose, we all drink for free tomorrow." Cheers of agreement followed his completed proposal.

It was you who quieted them down this time, "Just so I'm crystal clear, if I successfully fuck this forthcoming stranger, you'll give me a day of peace to close the bar tomorrow?" It sounded too good to  
be true and marvelously easy.

"Surely. And if the stranger doesn't wake up in your bed, then you'll be waking up to a tavern full of drunks getting loaded on the House." He paid for his drink then, slapping the coin and his empty mug on the bar top to make a point. 

Everyone was silent in anticipation, so silent that you could hear a horse approaching outside. You made a show of taking John's money and refilling his mug. "You have yourself a deal.” 

The tavern erupted in hollers and whoops. You cheersed your own glass with each of the patrons who were close enough to reach. As you downed your beer, drunk from the excitement of the wager rather than the alcohol, the large wooden door of The Cocks' Crow swung open. A blast of bitter cold air sliced through the cozy room, followed by a giant man who looked as if he'd never been warm in his life. 

You knew who he was instantly; you'd heard the songs but were not convinced he was a real person. All eyes shifted from the white-haired warrior over to you as he approached the bar. Whispers circulated and became a low buzz of fear and gossip. The realization of what you'd agreed to hit you hard and fast. Of course, you could just back out of the wager, simply surrender to the fate of losing now rather than put yourself through the effort of what seemed like an increasingly impossible task with every step Geralt of Rivia took toward you.

“Hello…” the Witcher's voice rippled, gravelly and deep. He sounded very unhappy to be there, and yet something about him intrigued you.

“Birdie,” you offered, calmly, casually, like he was any other customer, “Everyone calls me ‘Birdie’."

"Birdie," he repeated and nodded in greeting. Something about that voice saying your name caught you off guard in a way you hadn't expected. 

"I gather this is the only place for quite a few miles that a man can get a room and a hot meal." His rough voice smoothed out slightly as he spoke. He was eloquent, and his accent was much higher class than you’d expected for someone who was fabled to kill for a living.

"You assume correctly, Witcher," you responded warmly, "or should I call you ‘Geralt’?"

“My reputation precedes me even in the middle of... what do you call this village?"

You smiled. This was your favorite question. 

"Nowhere,” was your response.

"The middle of Nowhere,” Geralt rolled his shining yellow eyes, "fitting."

“Thank you,” you replied, "named it myself." You left him to think that over while you rifled through the drawer where you kept the keys to the rooms upstairs. You chose carefully. There was one  
set of connected rooms that might be particularly useful in ensuring you won your little wager. After all, it was never stipulated whether you'd need to provide any hard and fast evidence of your spending the night with your fated stranger. You figured letting someone see you go into and come out of the same room as he did would be enough. The residents of your little village were sweet, but not very bright, and most importantly, easy to manipulate. Especially for a woman of your specific talents.

"You’ll be in the last room on the left." You handed the Witcher his copy of the key, and he let a handful of silver coins spill out onto the bar. 

Your eyebrows shot up. "Well!" you said, calculating the amount, "That'll get you a room all right, but how long are you planning to stay?" 

He stared back at you, florescent yellow eyes swimming under his heavy, dark brow. After the initial shock of welcoming a man so dangerous into your home, you could appreciate that Geralt of Rivia was  
equally terrifying as he was handsome. A combination that, at present, with him holding your gaze, was making your palms sweat and your heart race, just a little.

“Lucky for you and your till, it seems a storm is coming," he finally said, not really answering your question. You sensed he had a punchline to get to, so instead of responding, you poured him a glass of your finer whiskey. He had, in fact, already paid for it. The witcher thanked you, took a sip, and continued, a little louder so he could ensure the eavesdroppers behind him were tuned in, "I hadn't planned on stopping tonight, but just outside of your village I ran into a particularly fierce wind tunnel. It was more of a cyclone really, in strength, but it lasted only as long as it took me to spot the light in your windows here." He paused and you cleared your throat nervously, trying to think of a sufficient lie.

He continued, "a gust of wind, with no bodies of water around, and on a night as still as death. It's a bit odd isn't it?"

"It's just wind,” you said not as convincingly as you’d hoped.

“You don't sound so sure of that. Is this something that happens a lot? This…sudden wind?" he pressed you further, but the other patrons were dying to chime in. Rodgers was the first to break the tension.

"I’ve seen it, this…’cyclone’ you called it? "

Geralt turned and headed toward Rodger, nodding to answer his question. "When did you see it?" he asked.

Rodgers, a rather large man himself, shrunk back at being addressed directly by the Witcher. When he responded, it was obvious he'd lost some of his gusto, "Well... I was coming back from...hunting...one evening, and it, the cyclone, sort of whirled around my house. I couldn't go in actually, come to think of it. I came here instead." 

Geralt tented his fingers under his nose and kneaded his jaw with his thumbs, thinking.

Had he really put the pieces together so easily? You quickly stepped out from behind the bar, taking  
the Witcher’s things with you upstairs. It was a good excuse, a seemingly normal task for an innkeeper to run off and take care of. 

His sword was amazingly heavy. You knew your way around a blade, but not one that size. It leaned against the door as you keyed into Geralt's strategically designated room. The pommel was almost up to your shoulder. "Impressive, Witcher,” you mumbled to yourself, nudging the door open with your foot and carefully bringing the giant weapon inside. 

A window was open. You hadn't left it like that, but you knew you'd find it this way.

“Brega," you said calmly to the wind. That was her name after all. "Who are you here for? Surely not the white-haired one. He's a Witcher, you know?"

The air near the window shivered and swirled violently for a moment, then snapped. You shielded your face from the ice-cold blast, and when you lowered your arm she was there. Long blonde hair, pale skin, and an hour glass figure wrapped in a shifting, shimmering blue dress. You might have described it as the most delicate silk you'd ever seen were it not for the fact that you’d seen it before and knew it to be an illusion. Of course, the men she intended to fool with her deliciously romantic appearance wouldn't see that. They fell for everything. Well, most of them did anyway.

“Hello, Brega," you said to the creature you'd come to know quite well. She responded saying your name quickly formally. Not wasting time on small talk.

"It's very dangerous for you to be here while his here. He's not a man, Brega. Your illusions won't work on him, and he knows how to... " She put up a delicate hand to silence you.

"I am leaving,” Brega said plainly. "I did not know about this Witcher and his powers when I led him here. However, he is here now, and I trust you will not let him harm me." The room was growing colder with every word she spoke.

"As I said, I am leaving. And as you know, to do this, I will need a man. A human one,” she continued, but you interrupted.

“That’s never been an issue before. You have your pick of my men as usual,” you responded and gestured toward the door indicating the room full of options just downstairs.

She specified, annoyed at being interrupted, “This one will be permanent. It can of course be anyone, but I believe John Rodgers will be the easiest to persuade. Bring him to me before dawn the day after next, or relinquish your humble village to the wind." 

She was already disappearing when you opened your mouth to protest. Brega's human form rippled and fizzled out into a cold miasma, floating out into the night and pulling the shutters closed with her. Her magic tingled on your skin at her departure, as it always did.

You signed heavily, cursing to yourself, "Fuck." Rodgers was married with a young son and another child on the way. Why, of all people, would Brega think he would leave them to go with her?

"Hmph,” you spun around at the sound to see Geralt of Rivia leaning in the doorway, arms crossed, looking pleased with himself. "That's heavy. I'm surprised you got it up the stairs." He pointed his chin toward his iron sword. You scrubbed your hands through your hair and sat on the bed.

"How much did you see?" you asked.

"Not much," he admitted, "but I heard all of it." 

You groaned and swore again, "She’s some kind of wind spirit." You weren’t ready to give up all the information you had, so you calculated your banter carefully.

"A vila," he offered confidently.

“Go on,” you encouraged.

"Vile are nymphs. They all take different forms. Yours is the wind sort." You rolled your eyes at his explanation because you already knew this, but just hadn’t had a name to put to the kind of creature you’d been dealing with for the better part of a year.

“Did you catch the part where, she said she'd take my village? I assume she didn't mean she wants to be the esteemed Lady of Nowhere."

"A wind vila can level a shitty town like this with the snap of her fingers, and they usually don't warn you first. This Brega of yours is the most mild-mannered vila I’ve ever encountered." Geralt spoke plainly, with no emotion in his voice. This sort of thing was strictly business to him.

"Okay,” you pressed him further, “so if she could blow us all away in a single whistle, why hasn't she done it already? I’ve known her for almost nine months. She never bothers us other than the occasional wind storm at John's house. I mean, sometimes she whisks the other men off into the woods but she always brings them back safe and sound.” Your voice trailed off.

Geralt responded very flatly as if he had already had this conversation. "John's wife is pregnant." It wasn't a question, but you nodded to confirm anyways. He proceeded, "The wife…”

"Minerva," you offered.

He nodded, "Minerva, would either he dead or widowed by now if it weren't for that child. There’s no other reason for Brega to have waited so long to take John from her.”

You began to piece it all together: John’s increasingly frequent journeys into the woods to "hunt" with no weapons, his showing up at the bar dazed, asking for a room for a few hours even though his house was a stone's throw away, and Brega's connection to it all. She was always there after he had gone home, sad, but in a romantic way, never destructive. You had helped her woo other men into the forest, always with her promise of bringing them back safely, but you hadn’t suspected that she’d dug her magic in so deep with John in particular.

"Geralt, do vile have changelings?" you asked though you both knew it wasn't really a question.

"The baby is causing her to think more strategically than her kind usually do. Newborns are a source of magic unlike any other. She must sense it coming. She wants John and the baby,” Geralt paused grimly, “but it sounds like she’ll settle for just one or the other if she has to, at this point.”

“She’s planning to leave. I think she’s finally strong enough to go, but she’s afraid to do it alone,” you said it more to yourself than to Geralt, but he made a noise in agreement anyways. The Witcher crossed the room and offered you a hand up from the mattress you'd sunken into.

"So, what do we do?" you asked.

"First," he gestured you to walk ahead of him, following you down the stairs, "I need to see how much this is worth to John Rodgers.” 

Back in the main room of the tavern, Geralt left you so he could negotiate with the very drunk, and already unnerved blacksmith.

You had been gone a little too long to go unnoticed at the bar, so you returned to your station and busied yourself pouring drinks and cleaning up the latest spills. How was it that these men could make such a big mess so quickly?

"That was fast,” Dorsett sidled up to the bar and winked.

“What was...Oh. Ha. Ha. William," you had honestly forgotten about the wager. None of these men, save for Geralt and now John, knew there were bigger things at stake now than free drinks and a silly bet.

"I didn't take a man like that to be the quick type, but then again, seems like you're both multitasking tonight," he continued to tease as you stirred the pot of soup that had been heating unattended for a little too long now.

"Kindly, do shut up, if you please,” you said with sour sweetness. “We just got him settled upstairs, and as a matter of fact, he has found himself a job to do here in our little town.” 

The William blanched at that, knowing what Witchers did for money.

"Do I want to know what sort of beast plagues us?" he asked.

"Oh, the worst kind," you said, dropping your voice down low in a mock warning, locking eyes with  
the aforementioned monster hunter over Williams shoulder.

Dorsett gulped, “What's the worst kind, then?" he asked.

Geralt bent down low and growled into his ear, "An empty stomach." The sound made the small villager yelp and jump with surprise. You laughed out loud, and Geralt grinned.

“So the famous White Wolf, Butcher of Blaviken has a sense of humor!" you said, teasing as you slid him a bowl of soup.

“Some joke!" William squeaked. He looked as though his feathers had been thoroughly ruffled. "So, are  
we in danger or not?"

“Why don't you leave that to the professional to decide.” You pushed a tot of whiskey into Dorsett's  
hands as a sign to scram. He took your meaning and sulked away, grudgingly.

Geralt snorted into his soup, "You have some real characters on your hands here."

"What makes you say that?" you said, voice thick with sarcasm, pulling over a barrel to sit on and enjoy your own soup. Dining and colluding with a Witcher—this was new, even for you.

“Your man John over there was easier to crack than most. Once I brought up his wife, he didn't spare any elicit details of his ongoing affair with "the girl in the wind" as he calls her.” He scrunched up his face, “This soup is burned. How do you burn soup?"

He was right. It was not a pleasant meal. You responded, "As you recall, I had quite the distraction upstairs." You poured out your bowl and snatched his away as well, leaving him holding his empty spoon. "Now there's a weapon for you." You gestured to the spoon.

He flicked it hard out of his hand just past your cheek—so hard that you heard the blunt end crack into the wood paneled wall behind you. He smiled, exposing a row of charmingly crooked teeth. "Sorry to distract you from your soup,” he said.

You looked at him wide eyed, then back at the spoon and wrenched the damned thing out of the wall brandishing it at him. You leaned in close and narrowed your eyes, “If throwing silverware is your way of flirting with the barkeep Geralt of Rivia, know this…" you snapped the spoon down on the bar and headed for the pantry, “…it's working.”

He swiveled around and leaned his broad hack on the lip of the bar to hide his smirk, but you didn't miss it. You didn’t miss a thing that happened at The Cock’s Crow.


	2. The Bar Is Closed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has heavy smut. It's pretty skippable as far as the main plot goes if you're just in this for the story.

"Alright, boys. Time to pack it up. Go home to your wives!” you declared to the stragglers huddled around your hearth. It was nearing midnight, your usual closing time on a slow night like tonight. Sometimes you let them hang around downstairs if there was someone trustworthy around to mind the liquor and make sure the fire was put out properly before locking up. Your stable boy, Levy, however, had gone home earlier after tending to Roach, the Witcher’s very well-mannered horse.

"Can't ye trust a one of us to lock up for ye, Birdie?" Jonesy was deep in his cups and his accent was getting thicker by the breath.

"I don't know, Mr. Jones. Can I?" you gestured to the small cluster of drunks huddled by the fire, on the verge of falling asleep right where they sat. "Who's going to make sure you don't just call it a night and make your beds on my floor like a bunch of wayward rovers? Seems you're about a quarter of the way there already." Dorsett snored loudly to prove your point.

"I have a business to run,” you continued, “so if you sleep here, you're paying for it. Geralt here knows the rules." You put your hand on the nape of his neck and looked up at him from your seat on the bench where you'd been sitting cozily together since your second, more edible dinner. He'd taken his heavy leather armor off quite some time ago, and his strong arm wound around your back, large calloused hand resting at your hip, rolling the hem of your top between his fingers absentmindedly. You leaned into him and ran your fingers behind the cup of his ear. He was like a big white cat—drunk now, like you and everyone else—and you could practically feel him purring in your hands.

His voice rumbled, husky from the whiskey, "You heard her, lads. Bar's closed."

Your requests hadn't gotten near as much of a reaction as his. Everyone turned at the sound of the Witcher’s voice. He'd been quiet next to you for so long that it seemed some of the men had forgotten he was there.

"Easy for you to say, Witcher. You don't have to go out into the cold." Fairfield grumbled. "And, Birdie, it looks like the bar's going to be closed tomorrow anyway,” He wagged his eyebrows and you scoffed, shifting in Geralt’s arms and disentangling your hand gently from his messy white hair.

"What's he talking about?" Geralt asked in a lower voice, only meant for you. The others heard him though, and burst out laughing.

"Oh, this should be good. Come now, wake up Dorsett," Jonesy shook his partner awake, "I think we’ll be going now after all." He grinned ear to ear and his band of brothers all waited for your response.

“Well, go on. Tell the man, Birdie,” said your former sometimes-lover, Fairfield. He was quite pleased with the situation he’d put you in.

You cleared your throat and slid over slightly on your bench, putting a little space between the two of you before delving into it. Geralt said your name, accusingly, waiting for an answer. It startled you that he knew it. You had only introduced yourself to him as “Birdie”. Then you remembered he’d heard Brega address you formally earlier that evening and relaxed slightly. Time to fess up.

“The boys here have a little wager going tonight. You know, something to pass the time." you started slowly, not sure how to phrase it.

"Okay", said Geralt, turning his body toward you fully, one knee hitched up on the bench between you, his calf tucked casually under the other knee, "and what of the stakes?" He sounded amused.

You opened your mouth to answer, but Dorsett, now wide awake, beat you to it, "She has to fuck you, Butcher, or we all drink for free come sunup!” he hiccupped to punctuate his embarrassingly blunt summary of our wager. You blushed furiously and stared daggers in his direction.

Geralt's eyebrows shot up briefly in surprise at the admonition, but he didn’t look offended. "Hmph" was all he had to say in reply. His knee was still up on the bench, but his head was turned toward Dorset.

The drunkard continued "And if she succeeds, to fuck you…that is…well…not just you, I s'pose it could have been anyone who walked through that door, but as fate would have it, it was you, so if she succeeds to fuck you, she gets the day off tomorrow. And we’re stuck drinking in our miserable homes instead of here." The exertion made him burp that time. The terms of the wager could not have sounded worse now that they had been recited back to you so crudely.

"Geralt,” you didn’t even know where to start. “I'm sorry, that was..." Your cheeks were hotter than the hearth. He stopped you before you could continue. You watched his face in profile as he spoke, his pupils dilated in the dim light of the dying fire.

"It would be quite convenient actually," he lowered his voice much more this time, so truly only you could hear him, "if the bar was closed tomorrow, it would be much easier to take are of a certain wind nymph." He had been looking up at the ceiling but caught your eyes now as if to ask for your thoughts. 

All you could say in response was a quiet "Oh."

“Wha’ did ye say? Speak up, Witcher," barked Jonesy.

You nodded in agreement with his proposal, and Geralt responded louder, not breaking his eye contact with you, "I believe I said, ‘the bar is closed’."

You reached up to cradle his face in your palm and narrowed your eyes in mischief. He nudged his nose into your fingers and smirked. "You heard the man," you shouted back at the group who were now struggling to find their coats and other scattered belongings. "Out!"

They grumbled and cursed as they piled out into the snow, slamming the door in defeat behind them.

You looked back at the man you had been afraid of only a few hours ago, now just a man, not at all the monster you'd heard songs about. Save for his eyes which were now large black saucers in his face, the irises almost completely gone as his pupils adjusted to the quickly darkening room. You wished you had the common sense to be frightened by it even a little bit, but it was strangely having the opposite effect.

“Thank you", you said quietly, framing the other side of his face with a second hand.

"For what?” he asked, smiling, you liked that you could feel the edges of his mouth turn up in your palms.

"For helping me kick them out," the last ember in the hearth was about to die. You leaned in closer and felt two strong hands grip around your hips pulling you toward him. "And for helping me win my bet.”

The fire went out, plunging you into darkness, and Geralt of Rivia's lips finally crashed into your own. You could still feel him smiling through the kiss.

"What's so funny?" you asked breathlessly as his mouth roamed down your jaw. He pulled you into his lap and laughed a deep throaty sound into base of your neck. He pressed his strong nose into the space between your collarbones and planted a kiss just above your breasts. When he spoke, you could feel his deep voice reverberate through your body. 

"Your vila,” he started, “she brought me here. I don't think she did it for herself." He hitched you up higher around his hips and squeeze your corseted waist, unclasping the stays on the front expertly in one move. Your body relaxed, free of the restrictive garment, free to be touched, grabbed, taken.

You started to process what the Witcher had just said. "You think she brought you here…for me? Why?" You gasped at the feeling of cold air followed by warm lips and a wet tongue on your bare breasts. Geralt  
slid your blouse down your arms to pool around your joined, but still clothed hips. He nipped at the warm skin of your sternum playfully, and you yelped. "Geralt!"

He laughed again and came up for air, sliding you half an arm's length away and looking up  
at you. You were straddling him with your knees slammed against the back of the wooden bench, boots dangling by his own leather-clad knees.

"My knees hurt," you joked to break the silence, "and you didn't answer my question.”

The White Wolf snaked his forearms underneath you and stood up in one smooth movement, keeping his hold on you tight. You were not a particularly small person in your opinion, but the way he lifted you effortlessly made you feel very tiny. And safe. You wrapped your arms around his shoulders and caught the edge of his ear in your teeth. He groaned into your shoulder and left a kiss there. You kept up your work, slowly kissing and nipping your way around his neck, mapping your course around that powerful jaw. Shifting your weight onto one arm, he walked as he talked. 

"Vile are selfish creatures", he began, using his now free hand to snatch another bottle from the bar. "They show themselves to a man with the intention of ravaging him." He headed for the stairs, taking them two at a time with you now settled on his hip. You were making fine progress in leaving your mark just below his left ear. The idea of leaving a bruise like that on this dangerous man made you feel powerful. He let out a sound of approval and continued, "If the man somehow escapes or insults her in any way, she will not hesitate to...Hmph, key?” He stopped short, the door to his room was locked, and his hands were currently occupied between the bottle in one and your ass in the other.

"Oh,” you took his meaning and reached around to his back pocket. You laughed and whispered, "This is silly. Put me down. I can't reach them." It felt strange to speak at full volume when you were this close to his ear. He bent down—you thought to put you on your feet—but then straightened right back up, effectively hoisting your midsection over his shoulder. You yelped as your hands grabbed onto his ass to steady yourself from falling.

“That maneuver works better when they're not wearing pants," the Witcher joked, slapping you playfully on the behind and peering at you over his shoulder. The keys jingled out of his back pocket, and he reached back to grab them from your hand.

"Nice to know you've at least practiced that one on other girls first before testing it on me,” you volleyed back.

“Not just girls,” he said sardonically. “And I would actually have preferred it some of the other creatures did wear pants," he mused, pushing the door open. 

“How romantic,” you dead panned.

The Witcher sat the bottle on the dresser near the door, grabbed your waist with both hands, and easily vaulted your body from his shoulder to land with a pleasant bounce on the bed. You watched him enjoy that bounce as you were reminded that your top was somewhere on the floor of the bar along with your discarded corset.

"Geralt," you said coyly. He replied with one of his sounds—this one had a question mark after it.  
He cocked an eyebrow and you continued, "Take your clothes off, and come here."

He disrobed quickly, his discarded shirt landing on the neck of the forgotten bottle of whiskey. You began to slide yourself backwards on the bed, slowly, toward the headboard, but he caught one of your ankles and jerked you back towards him.

"Pants, Birdie", Geralt said with a crooked smile. It was a fair demand—there he was towering over you, in nothing but the small strap of leather that held his hair out of his face, and you still had your boots on. He untied them quickly as you loosened your belt. You heard your shoes hit the floor and felt cold hands on your left foot.

He lifted your leg and you gigged at the soft kiss the Witcher planted on the sole of your bare foot. You hooked your knee over his shoulder and sat up. His eyes caught the moonlight streaming in from the window, magnified by the blanket of white snow outside, and flashed yellow again. They nearly glowed, lighting up his face. He looked like a wild animal—the White Wolf, indeed. 

He caught you staring and narrowed his wolfish eyes. "She didn't kill me," he said plainly.

"What?" was your weak response. You were preoccupied with drinking in every inch of moonlight on his immaculately battle-worn body.

He leaned down, forcing you to meet his eyes, and hooked his thumbs into the loops of your pants, pulling down hard, relieving you of them in record time.

"Brega led me here," he crawled up onto the bed, sliding you backward, your now-bare knee back over his well-muscled shoulder. "If she didn’t want me here, she wouldn't have let me see your tavern through her storm. She could have sent me on my way."

His hands slid up on either side of your face, thumbs kneading gently under your chin, and he finally kissed you again, slowly this time. He let his mouth open slightly and your tongue skipped along his crooked bottom teeth. You moaned into his mouth and his hands squeezed around the delicate bones of your face before moving down. His mouth descended, sucking and kissing and groping. He paused and spoke into the warm skin between your breasts, breathing into you.

"She never would have let me follow you upstairs or hear her warning." Geralt trapped your torso between impossibly large forearms and slid his palms up, up, up your sides to your arms. He slowly raised your wrists above your head and laced his fingers with yours at the top. "I especially don't think she would have liked this." 

He gave you one more blissful moment of eye contact with those magical yellow eyes, then continued down, circling one of your nipples lightly with his tongue before taking it into his mouth completely. You moaned deeper this time, and he felt it too, in all the places your bodies were touching. His cock twitched at the sensation. The White Wolf released your nipple with a small, wet pop and you cursed under your breath.

“Fuck," you pressed your arms back down and left his capable hands on your breasts. Your fingers tangled in his hair, and you finally put together the pieces of what he had been saying. "She brought you here as a gift,” you said breathlessly, “for me." 

He nodded into your stomach and made a noise in the affirmative and his mouth trailed toward your inner thigh. “Something like that,” her responded as the stubble on his cheeks reddened the sensitive skin there.

"I don't know how I'll ever repay her," you said, trying to keep your composure, but failing fast with the Witcher’s mouth roaming between your legs. The bridge of Geralt’s nose brushed just the right place and your head swam. You were practically dripping for him already.

"We’ll think of something", his hot breath set you on fire before his tongue followed.

"Fuh-uuck,” your voice was already husky from drinking and it came out a ragged whine. Geralt made an utterly feral sound against your most sensitive spot, and the warm rumble of it shattered any bit of control you’d had left. You were already so close to the edge. Sensing this, he pulled away abruptly and shifted back up to kiss your lips again. It was more primal this time, greedy, like a predator keeping his prey barely alive before going in for the kill. Toying with you.

Your hands were all over him, running over every muscle, every deep scar, trying desperately to fuse his warm, solid body with your own. You hummed with pleasure and he groaned your name into your mouth before plunging his fingers deep inside you. Your eyes rolled back in your head and your jaw went slack.

"Fuck, Geralt. I'm so close.” The words tumbled out quickly, desperately. "Please," you begged "I’m going to cum in your hand."

He bit down hard on your shoulder to stifle a guttural, animalistic noise. You shrieked in pain and ecstasy as your orgasm finally crashed over you. Before you had time to come down, Geralt hooked his arms around your thighs and plunged himself deep inside your dripping, spasming cunt. You came again immediately at the sudden pressure, filling you up so deeply. You could tell he was close too, trying his  
hardest to make it last, every thrust deeper and harder than the one before.

You could feel the next wave building inside you again and decided it was your turn to take the reins. You hooked your ankle around his leg and slid your hands to his waist for leverage. He laughed, a roguish grin playing across his face. With his hard cock still deep inside you, he finished the move you had been setting up. You rolled quickly, expertly so that you were now straddling him, hands on his broad chest, your tight pussy leaking and clenching around him.

"Thank you,” you breathed, trying to resist the delicious urge to move for just a bit longer. You were enjoying the feeling of sitting on his cock like this, so still and in control. You bent forward, situated your forearms on his chest, and parroted back his line from earlier when he had tossed you over his shoulder, “That maneuver works best when they're not wearing pants.”

He began to answer, but it cut off in a groan as you slowly, deliberately raised yourself up off of his length, stopping to hover just at the tip before quickly sliding back down, your ass connecting with the tops of his strong thighs with a slap.

"Fuck," Geralt cursed. You rolled your hips and felt him twitch and harden even more inside of you.

"Yeah?" you asked wickedly, moving slowly up and down on his cock, luxuriating in the slippery fullness. His thumbs hooked into the dips of your hip bones, and strong, greedy fingers dug into your perfect round ass, pulling you down onto him. 

"Yeah" he breathed, eyes closed. You could tell he was almost there, and so were you. You picked up the pace, but one of your arms slipped, flattening you against Geralt’s body with a slap. Your chin landed in the crook of his neck, silky hair spilling forward. 

He took the opportunity to regain control, pulling himself faster and deeper into you. His breathing became ragged with your smaller, uninhibited gasps escaping right next to his ear. Arms like jelly, you propped yourself back up on his chest with your hands, but the angle was suddenly too much. You spasmed hard and felt Geralt loose himself inside of you. Stars swam behind your eyelids as you twitched and clenched around him, that familiar warm wetness spilling and pooling between you. You let your arms give way again and slipped carefully back onto Geralt's heaving chest, sticky with sweat.

You laid there for a moment in silence, ear pressed to his chest, listening to his impossibly slow heartbeat. "Birdie" Geralt said quietly, not wanting to break the magic of the moment. 

"Geralt," you responded lazily, without lifting your head from his chest. His fingers traced the bones and muscles of your back, holding you to him lightly.

"You won your bet," he said. You could tell he was smirking.

You slid off of him then and curled against his side nuzzling your nose into the crook of his arm, his bicep your new favorite pillow. "Go to sleep, Geralt,” you said. He pulled you in tighter and did just that.


	3. Natural Gifts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt finds out that you are more than you appear.

Sunlight streamed into the small Eastward-facing room, its brightness magnified by the glittering snow that had fallen overnight. The light was too strong, forcing you to crack open still-tired eyes. The sight that greeted you was worth it, though. Geralt of Rivia slept on his back, one arm tucked under the pillow which was currently blanketed with his messy white hair. His head lolled to the side, away from the widow, still sleeping peacefully. You quietly studied his face and tried to guess at how old your Witcher might be. He looked to be in his mid to late thirties, but you knew from the songs written about him that he’d been around much longer than forty years. It would probably be rude to ask. He might not even know himself. When one was that old, it seemed silly to keep counting after a certain number of years. 

His breathing was incredibly slow, like his supernatural heartbeat. It had lolled you to sleep so easily the night before. Your own heartrate had slowed to try to match his while your head had lain on his chest. It was a phenomenon you’d also experienced with the cat that hung around your bar. House cats are drawn to people with irregular heartbeats, laying on them to try and regulate their anxiety. You smiled at the image of Geralt, the big white housecat and wondered how often someone in his line of work got a decent night’s rest. It would be a shame if the sun woke him up early as well. 

You carefully disentangled yourself from the mess of bedclothes, being cautious not to jostle him out of his hard-earned slumber. There were small sounds of the town waking up outside, so you decided it would not do to walk up to the window facing the town square wearing nothing but a smile. Geralt's large black shirt was conveniently in reach, hanging off the bottle of whiskey on the dresser by the door. You pulled it on and noted that it smelled like it hadn't been washed in some time. This was somehow not as offensive as it should have been. It wasn't a nice smell, but there were notes of him that broke through and made you smile. You would, of course, still be laundering it later. 

Gazing out the window you surveyed the snow, still fresh and yet to be trampled by busy animals and people. It looked like a fairytale, smooth white icing on a cake. You were pulled out of your fantasy by the sound of a small pebble plinking off the windowpane. Your eyes darted down to find the source, and you spotted a small group of men making rude gestures and whistling up at you. “Well, they've gotten their proof now if they didn’t have it already,” you thought to yourself and pulled the curtains shut. 

The sun had been warm on your skin, but now, in the darkness, you felt a chill. You snatched the whiskey off the dresser and shimmied the cork loose. A swig from the bottle was a good start at warming up from the inside. Now for the outside. The small stove that heated the room had all but gone out by now, so you took the opportunity while you were up to shuffle the dying embers and bring it back to life. That was better.

"Is that my shirt?” Geralt’s voice sounded like a rockslide, thick and rough with sleep. He saw you jump at the sound and hummed a sound of satisfaction. Whether at your reaction to his voice or the sight of you in his shirt—which barely covered your hips leaving the round curve of your ass in plain sight—you couldn't tell.

“What would you say if l said it wasn't yours?" you asked, padding quietly back to the bed. Geralt lifted the heavy quilt so you could slide in next to him.

"I'd say that's none of my business,” he growled. It sounded like he was still on the edge of a dream. In fact, he’d closed his eyes again now that you were nestled back in place, a little furnace wearing his dirty shirt.

"Geralt,” you tried to keep him awake, selfishly wanting to hear his voice again.

"Hmm?” he rumbled. That was good enough. He wasn't back to dreaming yet.

“Last night you said Brega brought you here as a gift or me,” you hesitated when he opened his eyes at the mention of the wind nymph.

He cursed under his breath and shut them again. "Fuck, I'd forgotten about her," he said quietly to himself, annoyed. The fact that he could forget about a monster who had threatened to level the town he was currently dozing in told you just how mundane this sort of encounter was for him.

"Sorry for the reminder,” you pressed on, "but why would she do that? You said vila are usually selfish creatures." Of course, you had an idea of why she had done it, but you wanted to know how much he’d pieced together so far.

He ran his fingers in lazy circles around your shoulder as he spoke, willing himself awake enough to have a conversation. "She respects you. You must have shown her some great kindness or helped her in some way. Vila don't usually harm women, only men, human men." He made a point of emphasizing the word "human", and paused before continuing. “She has no practical use for me since only humans can be seduced by a vila, but she knows I can harm her. If I had to guess, I’d say she was betting on you for the seducing."

“Everyone's in a betting mood these days,” you said sarcastically. He made one of his amused noises and got to his final point.

“She’s betting that if I’m on your side, you’ll protect her from me when she makes her move tonight. That you’ll convince me not to kill her, but to help her.”

“And will you? Help her?” You hadn’t realized that was an option.

“Your blacksmith, John Rodgers, is paying me a pretty hefty sum to get rid of his problem.” 

You were the one who made a noise that time, followed by your voice, “Why am I not surprised?” 

He shrugged and looked up at the ceiling in concentration, “There are ways to solve this that don’t involve killing.”

“That’s a relief,” you replied genuinely.

Geralt rolled over slowly, and swung his feet around to the floor. You sat up cross legged on your side of the bed. "We have all day and night,” you said mildly alarmed by his decision to leave the bed. “I hope you don't intend on settling this business right now…do you?" He found his pants and pulled them on. "Geralt, before breakfast?!" you exclaimed.

"Not before breakfast," he assured you, rounding the bed and offering you a hand. You took it and he dragged you to your feet, sliding his hands to your hips and gathering the fabric that pooled there. "I need this back now.”

“This is just an excuse to undress me again,” you put your arms up like an indignant child. He laughed  
at that and relieved you of the shirt.

“I only have the one shirt, Birdie,” he paused to look you over, drinking in your perfect skin slowly with growing eyes, "but it's a welcome inconvenience."

You wound up a hand to slap the grin off his face, but he caught it before it made contact with his stubbled jaw. He planted a hard kiss on your open palm. The unexpectedly sweet gesture redeemed him for the moment. "You mentioned breakfast?” he mumbled into your hand. You moved it to cup his cheek.

"Yes, but only because you've already paid for it, and I can't have you saving the town on an empty stomach.”

You moved to scoop up your own discarded clothes, but he caught your wrist and pulled your naked body into his chest for a real kiss this time. His tongue flicked across your bottom lip briefly and you started to feel a familiar warmth pooling between your legs. His fingers kneaded at your exposed skin, exploring slowly but thoroughly. You stifled a moan, and he bit down on your lip. You smiled and laughed a wicked laugh, your flesh still between his teeth. He released you, and you swayed on wobbly knees looking directly at the spot that had made you laugh.

"What?” Geralt asked, skeptical.

Your face changed quickly from mischief to confusion as your eyes searched for the mark you were certain you’d left on his neck last night.

"It's gone," you said in disbelief, reaching up to touch the spot just below his ear.

Recognition settled in and the Witcher’s face broke into a cocky smirk. "Those kinds of marks heal faster on me."

"Ugh!" You were genuinely upset to learn this.

"Not on you though,” he said as he turned to leave you standing naked in the middle of the room clutching yesterday’s clothes. "See you downstairs."

You waited until he was completely out of sight to dash to your room in search of a full-length mirror. Nobody was around today since The Cock’s Crow was closed, so there was no need to put your dirty clothes on before heading out into the hall. You couldn't remember a time when you'd ever been naked in the hallway of your inn. There had always been the threat of a wandering customer or employee. Not today, though.

Once in your apartment—which, understandably larger than the others, consisted of a series of interconnected rooms—you dropped your pile of clothing and headed for the mirror. What you saw would have been much more of a shock if Geralt hadn't already teased you about it earlier. 

You had two semi-circular marks around the curve of your shoulder—made by his teeth, you recalled hazily. There was a smattering of smaller red and purple marks dotting your chest and sternum. You pressed your fingers against them lightly and winced. The most impressive feat was that he'd also managed to leave a few of those on your inner thighs. You looked an utter mess, but the memory of how you’d become so thoroughly bruised was not an unwelcome one. After the initial surprise wore off, the sight of your perfectly smooth skin terrorized by The Butcher of Blaviken’s mouth was beginning to turn you on. You had to be careful not to get too close to your own open window and ruin the fun.

You ran your hands over your naked body, watching yourself in the mirror. A familiar warmth pooled between your legs as your fingers grazed ever so lightly over your sensitive nipples. You piled your hair on top of your head and stretched luxuriantly, turning to look shamelessly at every inch of your reflection.

"She's your blood sister, isn't she?" Geralt asked quietly from the doorway that led into your bedroom. He had a habit of sulking in doorways, you noted.

“How did you figure that one out, my Witcher?" you asked, not surprised or embarrassed that he had been watching you. In fact, you were feeling positively drunk with confidence after seeing Brega’s latest work mixed with his own.

"How could I have missed it?" he asked in response. His tone was a hypocritical mix of disapproval and admiration. He was, after all, presently looking at every inch of you except your eyes.

You padded over to your dressing table to retrieve the silk robe that was draped over the back of the chair. It was short and fairly see through, but you were getting a bit chilly in the large room with no fire. You picked up a hair pin as well and secured your uncombed hair into a twist on top of your head, a few strands falling loose, too short to join the others. You sat on the edge of the bed and patted the spot next to you, making sure to angle yourself toward the sunlight streaming in through the window now so he could watch.

His expression was less surprised than you’d expected, but he watched in definite fascination as the sun healed the bruises and bites on your skin. The parts of you that were unmarred became even brighter and smoother than they had been before. That was how her power worked inside of you, fueled by the sun.

The transformation now complete, Geralt approached. He took two steaming mugs you only just then noticed he'd brought with him off the credenza and handed you one before he sat. The famous monster killer had made you tea.

“When Brega first came here," you started, warming your hands on the exterior of the hot mug, "she had targeted my stable boy, Levy. He's a lovely boy, a very hard worker, but not too bright. She had an easy time seducing him, but it distracted him from his work, as you can imagine."

Geralt made a noise of understanding and snaked his arm around your hip. You tucked your legs up to the side and leaned into his firm chest. Now comfortable, you continued, "I caught her one night leaving the stable in her human form, and rather than scold her for distracting my employee, I asked her why she was wasting her time on a boy like him when she looked like…well, you know. You got a glimpse of her last night."

"I did. Your sarcasm may have saved your life, you know? Her kind likes to eliminate threats to their conquest, often without due cause." Geralt was, once again, explaining things you had already guessed, but it was good to hear them confirmed by a professional. 

"So how did it escalate to a blood bond?" he pressed on.

You sighed and responded, "She admitted she was weaker than usual when she found our town. Her sisters, the other vile, had been separated from her during an attack on their previous home. Brega stopped here to find an easy target to build her strength back up." You paused to sip your tea and Geralt guessed at the rest.

"So, you showed her some alternatives to your stable boy in exchange for…" He trailed off and looked again at the body he had accurately guessed to be enhanced by the vila’s magic. You nodded to confirm.

Geralt took one of your hands in his and studied it for a moment, running rough, calloused fingers over your too perfect skin. The skin you'd worked hard for and that he’d bruised so thoroughly mere hours ago. He pulled the pin from your hair and let it fall in supernaturally glossy waves over your shoulders. His fingers laced through the shining strands, gently as he began to speak again, softer this time, "You have no idea what you've done, Birdie."

You caught his hand, and carefully untangled it from your hair so you could lace your fingers with his. "You're right,” you responded. "Can you help me, Geralt?"

He took your empty cup and put it aside with his own, freeing up your hands. His kiss was a promise, snow and deliberate. He gathered you up in his lap and you spread your palms wide on his chest to steady yourself. You sucked in his bottom lip and his voice rumbled low and incoherent in his chest as you let it go with a small pop. 

You leaned your forehead against his and closed your eyes, "Is that a yes?"

"Hmm." He smiled, watching your magically beautiful face through hooded lashes. “I don't think I have much of a choice."

The ceramic mugs clattered off the bed and onto the floor. Your silk robe floated down after them, covering the broken shards. Breakfast could wait.


	4. A Plan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter and the next are from Geralt's perspective as he tries to figure out how to safely get rid of the vila without harming you. Jaskier, the bard, is mentioned in this chapter briefly. I like Jaskier's name better, but if you read the books, it's the same exact character as Dandelion.

Geralt grumbled to himself as he trudged across the town square in search of the blacksmith named John Rodgers. He had left his sword in his room at The Cock's Crow. He trusted he wouldn't need it for this particular errand. Vile only came out in their human form after sundown, and you couldn’t quite fight the wind with a sword.

He stomped the caked-on snow and ice off of his boots and thought, annoyed, that he would much rather be warm in bed with Birdie, a woman he had found to be full of surprises. This little visit to Rodger was as much for Geralt as it was for his enchanted little innkeeper. She needed him to make sure this vila problem was taken care of peacefully, with no casualties or changelings or stolen husbands. Her little town couldn't risk inciting the wrath of a physical embodiment of The Elements like Brega. Complicating matters further was the blood pact that had been confirmed earlier that morning. Birdie had agreed, in a mortally binding contract, to help the wind nymph grow stronger, and in return Brega would gift the innkeeper a portion of her power. 

Geralt thought about those gifts very vividly as he approached the smith. Flashes of memories from the morning's escapades distracted him from his mission: the way the sunlight caught her eyes just right, like it was being drawn into her irises to brighten them from within. He made a sound at the thought. It was actually likely, he mused, that that was exactly what was happening. After all, vile drew their power from nature. Brega had most likely given her blood sister a bit of sunlight to brighten her eyes, her silky hair, her perfectly smooth, glowing skin. That would explain why he hadn't quite noticed the supernatural nature of Birdie's beauty until morning; the sunlight streaming into his small room at The Cock’s Crow had added a spark to the nymph's latest round of magical energy transference. 

That would also explain why her bruises didn’t heal until her skin was in direct contact with the sun. He was glad they had healed. When Geralt had woken up to the sight of her bruised-up backside standing in front of the stove in his room in his shirt, he’d had mixed emotions of satisfaction and embarrassment. He hadn’t meant to be so rough with her, but it was good to know she could take it.

Whether Birdie had also been gifted the vila’s power of persuasion over human men, he couldn't say. Those kinds of charms don't work on a Witcher or any other magical being. She hadn't needed magic to enchant him though. He'd been drawn to her in the natural way, never mind that neither of them were completely natural themselves.

“Can you help me, Geralt?” she had asked him earlier that morning, her naked body gathered in his lap as he held her close. The magic that had made her was rare. He hadn't actually seen a blood pact like this in practice before. It wasn't the same as the bargains sorcerers had to make to keep themselves young and powerful. 

He'd seen the dark side of that arrangement before with a sorceress named Yennefer—her eyes, too bright and only on the surface, were not like Birdie's. Yen’s face and body were molded into an idea of beauty that had come from another sorcerer’s head. They all looked the same after The Artist was done with them: posture too straight, necks slightly longer than they should be, not a wrinkle or a blemish to be found on their faces. The Artist was, no matter how vehemently he would deny it, only human. It followed that his inspiration would be the perceived desires of other humans. His works of art were meant to appeal to the superficial desires of men. That was the difference. 

Brega was nature itself; she was the wind, and her sisters were the trees and rivers from which true, natural beauty originated. She didn't have to guess or play pretend when she bestowed her gifts on Birdie. The vila simply shared her access to that wellspring of Life with the woman who had helped her tap back into it in a time of weakness.

The danger in all of this was that the beautiful little bird waiting for the Witcher to return to her bed for the third time today was now more than just human. She’d given her blood to Brega as a sign of their agreement, and blood sisters drew power from each other. If one was injured, the other would suffer a loss of life force. The longer the exposure to each other, the more detrimental the blow. Birdie’s body was now acclimated to the magic, a mutated vessel for the vila’s rare form of raw natural power. If Birdie died, Brega could likely recover through her own magic, or otherwise, one of her natural sisters would come to her aid. But if Brega died, Geralt didn’t want to imagine that scenario. 

To put it lightly, Birdie would have a much more difficult fight for survival: the sudden loss of all that power would likely be too much for her human body to bear. It would leave an unfillable void. If Brega healed, then Birdie would eventually heal, but the opposite was also true. With no conduit for natural magic to fill the void left by Brega, Birdie would die, and anything that was left of her would return to the wellspring where it originated.

Geralt had explained this to the innkeeper before he'd left to find Rodgers—after breakfast, after she'd found him some extra clothes, after she'd taken his dirty ones for laundering, after she’d cum in  
his lap on the edge of her luxurious four poster bed. Her words rung in his ears again "Can you help me, Geralt?"

He hoped he could.

The Witcher pushed open the large wooden door of the town smith. He was greeted by a welcome blast of warm air from the smelt to the right and an excited "hello, sir!" from a young man fiddling with a pile of ore to his left.

"Are you the Witcher, sir?" the youth asked, eyes wide.

“I am, and who is asking?" Geralt replied, keeping his tone very businesslike. This was, after all, a business call.

"They call me..."

“Petey!” his father entered from the back door, "what's all this yapping?" John Rodgers shifted his attention to the giant man standing at the entrance of his smith. "Ah! Geralt, good to see you made it out of Birdie's nest alive."

"I didn't come here for small talk, Rodgers," Geralt said flatly. He wanted to make this quick so he could get back to the aforementioned nest.

“Right, of course,” Rodgers nodded his head respectfully, not wanting to get off on the wrong foot. He turned to Petey. "Son, go check on your mother. See if she needs anything." Rodgers continued speaking as Petey left the smith quickly and without comment, “The wife went into labor just this morning.” Rodgers beamed, “Imagine that—me, a father twice over.”

Geralt cut him off, "The situation we discussed last night has changed. It's slightly more risky than before," he paused and thought over what Rodgers had just said. " You're going to have to assume some of that risk." Especially if that baby doesn’t have the sense to wait to be born until after we are finished, Geralt thought to himself.

Rodgers already knew this was going to be tricky, but he'd hoped the Butcher of Blaviken could take care of it on his own, quickly and discreetly. “What do I have to do?" he inquired skeptically.

Geralt was surprised he was cooperating at all, "The only way to keep everyone safe from your vila, Brega, is for you to take control of her."

“I don't want to control her, Geralt. I want to get rid of her!" Rodgers protested passionately. "Can't you just use your fancy sword and kill it? I saw that thing. It's pure iron isn't it? I’ve heard the stories.” 

Geralt didn't feel like discussing his sword with a second-rate blacksmith like Rodgers. "I can't kill the vila,” he said.

"Can't or won't?” Rodger accused. This was more like the conversation Geralt had expected.

"Birdie's life is linked to Brega's," Geralt started. Rodgers rolled his eyes and scoffed, opening his mouth to protest, but Geralt cut him off again, "If I kill the vila, Birdie will most certainly die as well, and Brega’s sisters will come looking for someone to exact their revenge on."

"That's not my problem. I'm paying you, aren't I?" Rodgers was beginning to get nasty.

Geralt tried to stay calm, not his strong suit when faced with idiots like John Rodgers. "It is your problem because you have a wife who is hours away from giving birth, and nothing is a greater source of power to these nymphs than a newborn baby." He paused to let that sink in and continued, "The vile can take nothing from me, as I am not fully human, but what they can do is take your child and sap your energy along with it leaving your wife and son to fend for themselves."

That was plain enough for the blacksmith to understand. 

He got up silently and opened a drawer, digging around for a brief moment before returning. Rodgers pushed a heavy pouch into Geralt's hand, and the Witcher told him his plan. John Rodgers nodded, his response clipped, but respectful, "Alright. I will see you at sundown.”

Geralt exited out into the snow with the blacksmith's coin jingling in his pocket. There was only one sound in the world better than that. He smiled and looked up at the sun. He figured he'd have just enough time before sundown to get back to that four poster bed and hear it.


	5. How Much Time Do We Have?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heavy smut in this chapter. Much more explicit than chapter 2. This one is from Geralt's perspective.

Geralt pushed the door of The Cook's Crow open, expecting to be greeted by a warm reprieve from the cold. He noticed night away, however, that the fire in the main room of the tavern had been put out, likely immediately following his post-breakfast departure to see the blacksmith. It made sense that she wouldn't have kept it burning. The establishment was closed today, and she knew he wasn't going to hang around downstairs.

No, he found Birdie's apartment upstairs far more preferable.

The Witcher heard a creak on the stairs and looked toward the sound. "How did you fare with the blacksmith?" she asked. Even Birdie’s voice had a beautiful clarity to it. Geralt wondered whether she ever sang. He made a mental note to be sure he never took Jaskier this way. If he was this distracted by the woman standing on the stairs he could only imagine how detrimentally irresistible she would be to his notoriously horny bard companion.

"Did you hear me, Geralt? I said how was your errand? Are you alright?" the innkeeper crept to the bottom of the stairs and crossed the room to take his face between her hands. "Hmm? "she nudged, running her thumb across his cheek.

Geralt was annoyed with himself. He usually didn't let women distract him so much. He looked down at the cause of his simultaneous annoyance and desire, wrapping his arms around her waist. Birdie had put on a long, bulky sweater and high knit socks to keep warm and comfortable on her day off. Geralt gathered this wasn't an outfit many people got to see. He was charmed by it.

"It’s really fucking cold down here, Birdie," he finally said. She barked a laugh and slid her arms down from his face to rest clasped around the back of his neck.

“It's my day off, remember?” She raised an eyebrow. "Don't tell me you want to sit down here and... talk,” she spat out the word, as if talking was the most boring thing she could think of. 

Geralt scooped her up into his arms and headed up the stairs. She was right—talking was boring.

On his way into Birdie's bedroom, he remembered the questions she'd asked when he came in and decided to tell her only what was completely necessary. "I'm meeting Rodgers at sundown. I can't get to the vila without him there to lure her out into her human form." 

He placed Birdie on her feet, reluctantly. Bundled up in knits the way she was, holding her had been like carrying a thick, warm blanket. It was, mercifully, quite warm though inside her apartment where the fires had been burning since they'd woken up that morning.

She started unlacing his borrowed belt and pants. "How can I help?" her voice flowed from her mouth, smooth as honey. Geralt's right hand encircled both of her wrists and held them gently in peace, just before she'd been able to slide off his pants. He needed to be clear with her on this point, no distractions.

She made a small noise of surprise when he caught her hands, followed by a look of roguish disbelief. "Geralt," she protested. Her tone matched her expression.

"Birdie, I need you to be serious for a moment so that I know you hear me when I say this,” his voice was firm, and he searched her eyes for signs of retaliation. She had heard him though and twisted her hands in his loosened grip, lacing one set of fingers through his own and covering the top of his hand with her other palm. She nodded for him to continue.

Geralt fixed his eyes on Birdie's as he spoke," I need you, no matter what happens, to stay here, away from the town square tonight." He took in a breath and lowered his eyes to watch her long, slender fingers run back and forth around his large, calloused hand. He continued, "I am fairly certain that if she is mortally wounded, the vila will take back the life force she’s stored inside of you to try and save her human body. If that happens,” Geralt turned Birdie's hand over in his. "I don’t know if I'll be able to keep you alive."

Geralt looked back up, and her face was devoid of emotion. "That's the price of the blood bond then," she said calmly. It wasn't a question. "We’re the only ones who can keep each other alive." Birdie swallowed. Tears began to swim in her eyes, but did not fall.

Geralt let her arms fall to her sides and responded gravely, “Magic always comes at a cost."

She nodded, understanding. "Then I’ll stay here, out of your way. But if something goes wrong...you’re sure your magic wouldn’t be able to fix me?" she searched his face for any signs of a lie.

"I'll do everything in my power to keep you alive," he responded truthfully.

Her long lashes fluttered and collected the tears she’d not allowed to spill over. Geralt knew she was strong. He could trust her to do what had to be done for the good of her town.

She glanced toward the window that overlooked the square and asked a simple question, heavy with implications, "How much time do we have?" She turned her head back to him, waiting for an answer.

Silence hung in the air between them. He let her decide where this was going to go. With the looming danger of the night ahead laid out so plainly, she made up her mind. 

Geralt could sense her decision—the slightest change in her body language told him exactly what she wanted. Birdie moved quickly, wrapping her arms around his neck and pressing her open mouth against his, hungrily. Geralt’s body absorbed the momentum of hers as they collided. He wrapped strong arms under her thighs, and she pulled herself up, crossing her ankles behind the small of his back. 

Geralt needed to get that ridiculous sweater off of her, but he didn't want to let her feet touch the ground now that she was so firmly encircled around his waist. He smiled into her ravenous lips. Birdie had neglected to put anything on under the sweater, save for the socks that ended halfway up her thighs. The Witcher groaned in satisfaction at the realization. He could feel the heat radiating from between her legs where she'd pressed herself against his abdomen. His pants were still partially opened from her efforts to relieve him of them before, and they bulged with his growing desire.

His eyes darted around quickly for a suitable surface to fuck her against. A wall would have to do. Geralt slammed Birdie’s back against the nearest one, pinning her up with his hips. She grunted, biting down on his lower lip. He tasted a metallic twinge of copper. She'd broken through the skin but only slightly. Birdie laughed darkly as she realized it too.

With her body secured to the wall by his, Geralt had the use of his arms and hands back. He made a show of wiping the bit of blood from his lip on the back of his hand. His yellow eyes flashed and reflected back in her own. "You're going to pay for that,” he said in a mock threat.

Birdie narrowed her eyes in response. She squared herself up, hands on his shoulders, legs squeezing tightly around his waist. His shirt had rucked up around the tops of her legs, leaving his midsection exposed. She rolled her hips forward and left a warm, wet trail on his stomach. 

"Name your price,” she said on a labored exhale. Her lips were parted, eyes hooded, looking like a very expensive whore. And acting the part expertly, Geralt thought.

The Witcher growled a feral noise and tore off her sweater, tits bouncing as her back re-connected with the wall. She echoed the noise with her own version of his ferocity and nudged The White Wolf’s loose pants over his hips to the floor. He pulled off his own shirt, and his hard cock sprung from his pants settling between her cheeks with a wet slap. She gasped in surprise at the sensation. Geralt steadied his hands on the wall above Birdie’s head and growled into her neck as the signs of her arousal continued to leak down his stomach to his twitching shaft. 

She breathed loudly, chest heaving, pressing her breasts up against his bare chest. Geralt luxuriated in the sensation of her pinned and dripping beneath his massive body. Every part of her was perfect, and she was inviting him to take it all. He reached down between them and ran a finger roughly up her slit, feeling just how wet she was for him. She wailed, her honeyed voice crackling with need. "Aaah. Please,” she breathed roughly and rolled her hips toward him again, loving the feeling of his cock, covered in her wetness, sliding against her firm, round backside.

Birdie didn't have to ask twice. Geralt sild her body up the wall and positioned himself at her entrance, running the head of his cook over her sick, warm pussy. She was so ready for him. Using the wall for leverage, he plunged balls deep inside of her. She opened her mouth in a silent scream of ecstasy at the sensation of being so utterly and completely filled. She clenched hard around him and he knew he wasn't going to last very long.

But neither was she. 

A dark groan slipped through her gritted teeth, and she moaned into his ear," Fuck me, Geralt."

He made quick work of her and came hard inside her tight, spasming cunt as she screamed his name. He let her tired, fucked-out little body slide down the wall to her feet. She wobbled and he watched his cum slide down her leg as she steadied herself on his solid torso. Her fingers splayed against his abdomen, and her cheek connected with his pecs as her tired knees knocked together.

“Fuckme,” she cursed under her breath.

Geralt laughed and scooped her up into his arms. "I believe I just did," he joked.

She pressed her nose into the hollow of his shoulder and burrowed in, shooting him an indignant look. She was so…silly. It was disarmingly endearing. Nothing like Yennefer. Geralt made another mental note to keep Birdie a secret from Jaskier. This time, less for his selfish physical reasons and more for his sanity. The two of them would be a nightmare together.

He put Birdie in her bed and turned around scowling at his cum stained shirt on the ground by the wall. That wasn't going to work. 

He heard the bed shift behind him and strong arms wrapped around his waist from behind. He threw his hands up in surprise and felt Birdie's laugh reverberate through his body. Her mouth pressed against his bare hip. He looked down at her, and she looked up, speaking into his skin, muffled, "your clean clothes are over there, big guy.” She let go, sitting back on her knees and pointing toward a neatly folded pile on  
a chair on the far side of the room. His sword was there too, leaning upright against the chair. She'd moved all of his belongings here earlier. Obviously anticipating this just as he had.

He felt her eyes on him as he got dressed, and heard her hum in satisfaction to herself a few times. He'd done the same to her plenty of times today, so he wasn't one to judge.

He slung his scabbard onto his broad hack and turned to see Birdie on her stomach, ankles crossed behind her on the pillows, two fingers toying with her bottom lip absently. She snapped her eyes up, and froze now that he was watching her, but didn’t move her fingers. She locked eyes with him and slid her tongue out to meet her fingers, toying with her mouth explicitly for him before sliding down flat on the bed. Her head rested to one side on crossed arms.

"Fuck", Geralt cursed to himself. He'd forgotten what he'd turned around to say. 

“I don’t think we have time to go again.” She shifted her eyes to his crotch and rolled over, arms crossed behind her head. She spoke to the ceiling with a big smile on her face, “but you're the expert. Maybe I’m wrong." He could hear the laughter in her voice and watched it ripple through her, making every delicious part of her body jiggle on the plush mattress. “I hope I’m wrong,” she finished teasing.

He exhaled deeply and tried to ignore the bulge that had started back up in his tight leather pants. Geralt signed. The sun was almost down. Right now, he wished someone would ride into town and give him the night off. But there was, quite inconveniently as usual, a life or death situation for him to take care of.

"Remember what I told you," Birdie tilted her head back toward his voice, watching him upside down from her spot on her back. Her bare chest stretched up to the ceiling with the movement and Geralt mentally cursed again. "Stay here,” he reiterated to her, “no matter what." Birdie nodded and rolled back over onto her stomach again.

That was a shame, Geralt thought to himself.

"No matter what," she repeated seriously. Her voice was uncharacteristically sober, "I feel silly saying this since it’s your job, but... " her eyes glittered with the last bits of setting sunlight creeping through the window, "please be careful, Geralt."

The Witcher nodded and tore his eyes away. He had business to attend to.


	6. The Price of Magic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter! We're back in your perspective. T/W graphic descriptions of blood and death.

You jolted awake in your bed, naked, screaming, and in pain. It was early in the morning, or very late at night. You couldn’t tell or didn’t care. All you could focus on was the sudden and excruciating assault on your body which felt like it was being drained of all of the things that usually nourished it. Waves of nausea washed over you coupled with the visible dehydration of your usually plump and healthy skin. Your muscles were starting to cramp in strange places, making your body writhe and twitch all on its own. The worst pain of all though, the one that had pulled you so violently from sleep, was not physical but emotional. 

You'd been dreaming vividly, lucidly, and it had turned so quickly into a terrible nightmare. In this dream you’d been standing in the town square as a man came toward you. Now that you were awake, you struggled to recall whether you’d recognized this man or not, but you knew he was important to you. You didn't love him—you knew somehow that that was an important distinction—but you did need him. He made you feel complete somehow, not in the romantic way that we usually speak about people completing each other, but in a practical way, like you needed to be around him to survive, to feel strong. Basking in his aura was more important than breathing air to you. 

He called a name, tears in his eyes, and you responded to the name, your body floating toward the field of energy that surrounded him. You remembered a voice that was not yours coming from your mouth saying two words, "my child." 

A baby cried. Somehow you could feel its energy too, stronger than the man's. It had come suddenly. It was not there when you'd entered the town square. This fresh, new energy pulled you to it, stronger than anything you had ever experienced before, and you turned sharply toward it to follow the call. 

Your body was rippling and shifting with the force of the newborn child in the house in front of you, and when you looked down at your hands, they were beginning to disappear. Before you had a chance to reach the pull of new life that beckoned you beyond the door, you saw an arrow thud into the wood, felt a sharp pain in your abdomen, and heard the panicked cries of different voices from all directions.

"Petey, now!"

"No, wait!"

"I won't let her take it, Geralt!" 

"Catch her!"

Your body swayed into one set of arms as another stronger force yanked your head back sharply by your braided hair and quickly let go again. That sensation of being violently released is what had jolted you awake, back to reality in your own bed and your own body, a body that was clawing for strength as you struggled to stay conscious. You were not sweating as one usually does when they have a terrible nightmare, but you were crying. For what loss you weren't quite sure. 

You’d been weighted down by a deep, bottomless sadness from the moment you woke, and it was at war with the physical pain for your attention. You pushed it all down and tried to swim to the surface. You needed to regain your grip on what was real and what was merely a lingering aftershock of the bad dream. A hot wetness was pooling on your abdomen, spilling into your navel and down your sides. You tried to raise your arms to move the bedclothes and investigate the source, but your muscles were still too weak lift your bones. More tears streamed down your cheeks as you laid in silent agony.

A door slammed downstairs. The sound traveled up to you, followed by pounding boots and more doors opening and closing. You heard your name echoing loudly among the other noises. It was Geralt’s voice. He sounded distressed. Now dazed and going into shock, you wondered why he was so upset.

“In here,” you said quietly. Your voice would not go above a whisper, but he knew where to find you.

The door to your room flew open under your Witcher's hands and banged against the wall where he'd held you only hours before.

"Geralt," you mouthed, but no sound passed your dry, cracked lips.

“She's alive,” he said to someone behind him. "Hurry. We don't have much time. The sun is coming up soon."

The someone entered the room and gasped at the sight of you. Actually, it was three someones: John Rodgers, his son Peter, and a small, struggling woman who looked vaguely familiar. She was hunched over, clutching her abdomen, and her hair was shorn messily, hanging at odd lengths above her shoulders.

"Hello, everyone," you croaked, still dazed. 

“My God, why does she look like that?!” Rodgers exclaimed under his breath. Geralt shot him an accusatory look as he hastily positioned himself next to your side of the bed. 

“What did I tell you about their connection, Rodgers? You did this.” Geralt sounded more menacing than you thought humanly possible. Again, though, he was not human.

You shivered violently and realized the bedclothes had been thrown back. Geralt grimaced at what he saw. The Witcher began whispering and making Signs in the air above your bloody abdomen. The underside of the white sheets were stained bright red, and a growing splotch of crimson radiated from beneath your body as well.

"Brega,” Geralt said sternly, “you're the only one who can help her. I don't want to use this, but I will if I must." He held up a shining white silk rope. Your eyes fixated on it as bodies moved closer to you and arranged themselves around your bed. You focused very hard on the rope and realized it wasn't a rope at all. It was a plait of beautiful blonde hair. You knew that hair, and you knew the voice that came next. It had been your voice in your dream.

"It's too late," Brega said. "When the cock crows, that will be useless.” She pointed a finger toward her once magnificent hair wound tightly around your Witcher’s fist. "I will return to my natural form, and she will die," Brega said plainly.

"Geralt, you said,” Rodger began to protest, but was cut off by the Witcher.

"Shut up!" Geralt said quietly, but forcefully. He pulled the braided hair tighter around his knuckles, and his eyes shone bright with magic energy.

“You said you wouldn't!” Brega shrieked, reaching out toward his hand. She froze mid-movement, blocked by an invisible force.

Geralt’s own voice was low and measured, but it sounded as if it were being amplified by a choir of more sinister mimicking voices. "Brega, I command you to heal this woman, your blood sister. You owe it to her. She helped you, and now you must help her. At all costs."

The vila a straightened up, her cropped hair floating and crackling with supernatural electricity. Her mouth did not move, but her disembodied voice responded, "As you wish, master."

Her eyes did not leave the braid of her hair clutched tightly in Geralt's fist as she began to rise up off the ground. It was the only thing that allowed her to be controlled by another, and his sword had sliced it from her head in the chaos after Peter had loosed his arrow into her human form.

The air around Brega shifted. It crept along the sheets and up your body, sending sparkling shivers through your cramped muscles and tired limbs. As her battered body disappeared, yours regained strength. Another sad wave of tears began to spill onto your now plump cheeks as you were struck with the knowledge that Brega was not just healing you, but giving up her human body to save yours.

The light outside was shifting to the orange-purple of daybreak, and the last outline of Brega's form faded before your sun-lit eyes. You sat up and reached out toward the void where she had been standing moments ago.

"Goodbye, sister," her voice floated past your ear, too quiet for anyone else to hear. 

A sob wracked through your body, now restored by the full extent of her magic. You felt more powerful than you ever had as the forces of nature surged through you. The wound from the arrow that Peter had aimed through Brega as she tried to steal his newborn sister was healed. You ran your fingers over the spot, smearing sticky, still-drying blood on your bare skin. Geralt’s arm wrapped a quilt around your shoulder, and you caught his hand. You needed to hold onto it for support before speaking. He squeezed your fingers back and laced his into yours.

"Rodgers,” you began, your newly enhanced voice sounding almost foreign to your ears, "you are no longer welcome in this town. I'm sorry, Petey." You were sympathetic to his young son who would never forget what had happened that night. Rodgers began to protest but you stopped him, "Blacksmiths are not hard to come by. Peter may stay and take over if he wishes. He may have held the bow, but you shot the arrow."

"But…Minerva! And the child!" John Rodgers looked as if he was going to be sick.

"They can stay as well if they'd like. They had nothing to do with this. I doubt your wife will forgive  
you for any of it anyways,” you said plainly.

He blanched, and a silence hung in the room. You could hear birds chirping as sunlight began to stream into the window. A rooster called from the yard, signaling the start of a new day. 

You wrapped yourself tighter in the quilt and slid off the bed to find your robe.

"What are you still doing here, then? Goodbye, Rodgers,” you said curtly without making eye contact. His face burned red hot, and he marched his son out of your home unceremoniously.

You dropped the quilt and pulled on your robe. The fabric slid smoothly against your glowing skin, now more fae than human. You turned and faced the window, feeling Brega's power surge through your body as the sunlight soaked in.

"Birdie," you didn’t turn away from the light as Geralt approached behind you. His hands settled on your hips. You placed yours over them and closed your eyes, leaning your head into his chest. The Witcher’s voice rumbled through you once more, "you're covered in blood."

You laughed then and responded, eyes still closed, listening to his supernaturally slow heartbeat. It matched yours now.

"Shhh,” you responded, “you’re ruining the moment.”

He snorted a sound of disbelief at how well you were taking this near-death experience. A door slammed downstairs. You assumed it was Rodgers and his son leaving, but it was followed by a familiar voice calling your name. A voice you hadn’t heard in over a year. You cracked open your eyes and turned your head toward it.

“Jaskier?” you and Geralt said in unison. You started to laugh again. Of course, they were friends. This was going to be very interesting. Geralt held your body away from him and spun you around in surprise.

“Please, do not tell me,” he started. You just grinned back at the Witcher and waited.

The bard appeared in the doorway to your room, a place he knew well. His delightful, booming tenor voice bounced around the walls, “Oh this is a pair I hadn’t expected to see in all my days. Birdie, my sweet, why are you all covered in blood!? Hello, Geralt!” 

You sauntered over to Jaskier, not bothering to close up your robe. It was nothing he hadn’t seen before—perhaps minus the blood.

“How exactly do you two know each other?” Geralt asked in a voice that sounded like he’d known somehow that this was fated to happen and that he was immensely annoyed by it.

You responded to your Witcher without turning to him, aiming instead to plant a kiss on your bard’s cheek, “How exactly did you think I already knew your name when you walked into this tavern last night, Geralt of Rivia, The White Wolf, famed Witcher, and Butcher of Blaviken?” You turned and threw an arm around Jaskier’s shoulder as he pulled your waist tight to his side and let out a thoroughly amused laugh. His hand slid under your silk robe to cup your bare hip familiarly, and you laughed too at Geralt’s expression.

“Hah! See, Geralt,” the bard planted a joyful kiss on the top of your head and continued, “someone listens to my ballads about you!” The two of you watched as the Witcher stood there in utter disbelief, covered in your blood, unable to think of a single word to say in response.

You broke the silence for him, “Well boys, this has been a lovely reunion, but I have a tavern to open.” They both left the room to let you get cleaned up and properly dressed. You could hear them arguing on their way down the stairs. After quite literally being brought back from the brink of death by the Force of Nature you had thought this day could not get any more interesting, but the day was young, the sun was up, and the fun was just getting started.


End file.
